BEAUTY SHOW: CLIFDEN, CO. GALWAY They're come to town from each dot on the compass, they're Wild as tinkers and groomed to the eyelash, And light of foot as a champion featherweight Prance on the top of the morning. They walk the ring, so glossy and delicate Each you'd think was a porcelain masterpiece Come to life at the touch of a raindrop, Tossing its mane and its halter. The shy, the bold, the demure and the whinnier, Grey, black, piebald, roans, palominos Parade their charms for the tweedy, the quite un- Susceptible hearts of the judges. Now and again at the flick of an instinct, As if they'd take off like a fieldful of rooks, they will Fidget and fret for the pasture they know, and The devil take all this competing. The light is going, the porter is flowing, The field a ruin of paper and straw. Step neatly home now, unprized or rosetted, You proud Connemara ponies. -- Cecil Day-Lewis, born Ballintubbert House, Co. Laois (Queen's) 1904. Late Poet-Laureate England.

SNIPPET: Excerpt from a letter written by Mr. Gerald COOKE in the July-Aug 2002 issue of "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine published in Dublin: "As small boys, my brother and I used to spend the summer holidays (from London) on our Uncle John's farm, a 25-minute walk from the Swiss Cottage. Both my parents were from Cahir. While my father was raised, lived, and worked in the town, my mother was born and raised of farming people who owned acreage in the countryside outside the town. Because they came from different levels of society it did not sit well with my mother's parents when Mam and Dad looked like they had eyes for each other. They ran away to England to be married, where I was born two years later and my brother, John, three years after that. As I understood it, because my mother had married "beneath her," there was no contact between her and her parents during those five years. In the summer of 1945, when my mother and father felt they could not go any longer witho! ut at least a visit to the place of their raising, they planned a return to Cahir, if only for the summer holiday. One of my mother's sisters was also to be sent down to say that all was forgiven and that we would be welcome at the farm. We visited Ireland and spent the summers at the farm outside Cahir every year until I was 15. Being raised in the metropolis of west London, my mother would not let John nor I outside to play with the other children in the streets, thus we were relative prisoners in the small two-room basement apartment. But in the summer when we went to Ireland she turned us loose to roam through the fields and countryside, amid farm animals and machines. What freedom! Sailing homemade plank boats on ponds to far-away places. Hunting for eggs and taking daily rides in the "horse and box" into Cahir to the creamery. Mowing and saving the hay. Cutting the wheat and barley behind a horse-drawn reaper and binder. We dug for potatoes and helping with herding an! d dipping sheep. The monthly fair was another delight. At daybreak far mers would herd cattle, sheep and pigs into town where man and animal would stand half the day waiting for buyers to come and offer a good price. On Sundays we would drive in the pony and trap to the chapel for Mass. And everywhere, always, there were warm, friendly people. Back home in England, our mother would take us to the library after school. We always looked for children's storybooks about Ireland written by Irish authors, of which there seemed to be plenty. In the evenings while waiting for Dad to come in from work, we would sit huddled around an iron range fireplace. Our mother would always sit with us and take a turn reading aloud. I remember one book was "The Turf Cutter's Donkey," by Patricia LYNCH. As I grew older, my father taught me to fly fish for trout along the banks of the river Suir just as he, a young man, had done before leaving for England. We would! buy flies from Eugene HEAVEY in the Swiss Cottage and walk down to the riverbank through the park, wher! e we would catch trout and carry them home hanging from a sapling. Places are a lot like people, each has a beauty that is very special and unique. And Ireland has a beauty all of its own." (Family photos appear in magazine).

Hi folks The following records were added to the Lurgan Ancestry website. 1901 CENSUS: Portadown Urban. Approximatley 40 pages or 800 names have been added, including famous streets of Portadown such as Garvaghy Road. These new editions along with the thousands of other records, directories and valuations are free to everyone and can be accessed and searched (with an on site search engine) by going to; www.lurganancestry.net regards. Martin. Lurgan Ancestry

> > >Both my grandads came to Liverpool from Ireland.I believe Cornelius Toman came from Co Down ,but I have no idea where Michael Toole came from and would be very glad of any help > You didn't give years, but how about the UK censuses? Many give county of birth. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

Both my grandads came to Liverpool from Ireland.I believe Cornelius Toman came from Co Down ,but I have no idea where Michael Toole came from and would be very glad of any help .Regards Pat Molyneux

WHEN YOU ARE OLD When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. -- Verse by William Butler Yeats, circa 1891, addressing his unrequieted love for Maud Gonne, Irish nationalist; it appeared in a vellum manuscript book entitled "The Flame of the Spirit," which he inscribed for her.

SNIPPET: In the city center, the old city walls of Derry, built 1613-1618 and still intact except for wider gates to handle modern vehicles, hold an almost mythical place in Irish history. It was here in 1688 that a group of brave apprentice boys, many of whom had been shipped to Londonderry as orphans after the great fire of London in 1666, took their stand. They slammed the city gates shut in the face of the approaching Catholic forces of deposed KING JAMES II. With this act, the boys galvanized the city's indecisive Protestant defenders inside the walls. Months of negotiations and a grinding 105-day siege followed, during which a third of the 20,000 refugees and defenders crammed into the city perished. The siege was finally broken in 1689, when supply ships broke through a boom stretched across the Foyle River. The sacrifice and defiant survival of the city turned the tide in favor of newly crowned Protestant KING WILLIAM of ORANGE, who arrived in Ireland soon ! after and defeated JAMES at the pivotal Battle of the Boyne. To fully appreciate the walls, take a walk on top of them (free and open from dawn to dusk). Almost 20 feet high and at least as thick, the walls form a mile-long oval loop that you can cover in less than an hours walking. At the corner of Society Street is the Apprentice Boys Memorial Hall (built 1873) which houses the private lodge and meeting rooms of this all-male Protestant organization dedicated to the memory of the original 13 apprentice boys. The end of the siege is celebrated each year with a controversial march atop the walls by the modern-day Apprentice Boys Society on the Saturday closest to the August 12 anniversary date. These walls are considered sacred ground for devout Unionists, who claim that many who died during the famous siege were buried within the battered walls for lack of space. A few more steps take you past the small Anglican St. Augustine Chapel, set in a pretty graveyard, where some believe the original 6th-century monastery of St. Colmcille stood. -- Excerpts, "Rick Steves' Ireland 2005" guide book (Avalon Travel)..

MEMORY LANE: Peter QUINN is the author of 'Banished Children of Eve," a novel about the Irish in NYC during the Civil War. In his personal life he recalls taking a memorable trip back to Ireland with his widowed mother in the 1970s. "... In 1975, the year after my father died, my mother announced she was planning a trip to Ireland. She wanted to visit the places in County Cork that her parents had emigrated from in the 1880s. To describe my mother's decision as unusual is understated. A steadfast Catholic who wouldn't hesitate to identify herself as Irish, she had never shown the slightest interest in exploring the past. Occasionally she expressed the opposite, going beyond a blanket dismissal of questions her children posed about the family history to the active destruction of birth and death records, diaries, newspaper clippings, and the like. 'Excess baggage' was her unadorned explanation. My parents met in 1928, while my mother was a junior in college and my father was working as a civil engineer and attending law school at night. They carried the stamp of the twenties the rest of their lives, or at least of aspects now considered emblematic of the decade. Urbane and stylish, they were wonderful dancers. They loved going to nightclubs and the theater, where they enjoyed everything from the Marx Brothers to Shakespeare. In a photograph from that time, my father bears a resemblance to Jimmy Walker, dapper in a handsome overcoat, derby cocked at a jaunty angle. Like Walker, my father wanted to be a songwriter but was directed willy-nilly into politics. My mother and father weren't exactly Zelda and Scott. The idea of marrying outside the Catholic fold was a nonstarter. Ivy League schools were beyond the pale. Though they enjoyed an evening's jaunt in the downtown cosmopolitan world, their home was uptown, on the ethnic terra firma of the Bronx, whe! re my father made his political career. But they were city people to the bone. Content to rent an apartment rather than own a home, they had an enduring sense that whatever its tensions or temptations, New York was the future, a place safe from the ravages of Prohibition, Fundamentalism, and small-town Republicanism. Inevitably, although it was never spoke about, there must have been a gap between my parents and their parents, tensions, disagreements, disparate expectations. Three of my grandparents were from rural Ireland and had never set foot in a city until they traveled through Cork or Liverpool on their way to America. Even my father's mother, who was American born -- the daughter of immigrants who arrived during the Famine -- spent her early years on the farm where her father worked, on the outskirts of NYC. Yet whatever their arguments involved, they weren't over the relative merits of cities and farms. If there was the slightest nostalgia on my grandparents' part for the land or for the life they knew as tenant farmers, it was neither passed down or not mentioned.... When my mother made her trip to Ireland, she brought along her sister, a granddaughter, and myself. We found the village her father came from, a small forlorn crossroads outside Macroom, in what had been an Irish-speaking area until the early 20th century. 'Greatly shrunk in size and spirit from what it must have been a century ago' is how the parish priest described it to us. The old church had burned fifty years before, and with it the parish records. There wasn't even a faded scrawl on a moldering baptismal registry to connect us to these empty, mist-shrouded fields. My mother and I left the others on the church steps and walked together a short distance down an unpaved road. Nearby was a crumbling concrete barn with a rusted iron roof. There was a radio on. I looked at my mother. I knew she was still deeply grieved by my father's death, and I was afraid the utter absence of any trace of her own father, of a past gone and forever beyond reach, might bring her to tears. The mist was quickly changing to rain. 'We should go back, ' I said. 'Listen,' she said. I heard the quick fluctuations of fiddles coming from the radio, Irish sounds. 'My father sang that tune.' She smiled and lifted her coat above her thin ankles and did a small, graceful jig, the soles of her American shoes gently slapping the ground. It was a step I'd never seen her do before." -- Excerpts, Peter Qinn, 'Farmers No More: From Rural Ireland to the Teeming City,' in "The Irish in America," Coffey and Golway, NY/1997.

SNIPPET: Frank FORAN, a native of Sheskinacurry, Drumshanbo, Leitrim, wrote this moving account of the wake and funeral of his maternal Grandfather. His Grandfather, a school teacher, died in 1911, and Frank, now also deceased wrote the account in 1912. In it, he describes the scenes at the wake and funeral with the reverence and respect with which the dead were treated. The account, even though seen through the eyes of a child, is detailed and beautifully written. Frank wrote, "It was the feast of our National Apostle, One Thousand Nine Hundred and Eleven. As my twin brother and I walked down the narrow mountain road from our home, on our way to early Mass in the village church a mile or so distance, we were filled with that joy known only to boys. There were a few reasons for our elation: we were turned out in our Sunday best, to which were added green ties and sprays of shamrock in our caps. It was friday - an extra day free from school, but the big events to which we looked forward were our marching in the festival procession in the village, led by the bands playing national airs, after which we would go on a visit to the home of our maternal grandparents where we had spent our childhood. Having arrived at the church we took our places in one of the front seats and in a few moments the priest, led by his two servers, arrived from the sacristy to celebrate Mass. He was a tall, fine looking man, in his early sixties, very stern, and more feared than loved by school boys, but known to all to be a very eloquent preacher. Having reached the point when he would make his parish announcements and give his sermon, he turned to the congregation and in his beautiful modulated voice said, 'Your prayers are requested for the repose of the soul of Denis...who died at his residence this morning. May he rest in peace.' Immediately my brother and I burst into tears and wept bitterly during the remainder of the service and failed to listen to our good priest's sermon on St. Patrick. On our way home kindly neighbours consoled us, so by the time we reached our house we had somewhat recovered from our sorrow. Immediately we entered the living room my brother, in a somewhat loud but quivering voice said: 'Grandfather is dead.' My father, who had just entered from upstairs, turned and reprimanded him for his indiscretion, which after all was due to a boy's lack of tact. Immediately I turned to look at mother who had dropped into a chair and full of silent weeping while her tears dropped quietly on her hands which lay folded on her lap. In a short while she recovered and proceeded to prepare breakfast for everybody, prior to accompanying father to mid-day Mass. After dinner my brother and I rambled up to the top of the hill from which we could hear the bands playing in the village in the valley below, but the music had now lost its appeal. We talked of Grandfather - when would he be buried, and would we be permitted to accompany his remains to the grave. We talked about Mother: why she did not cry as we did on hearing of her father's death: why her stoic acceptance of the sad news? ! We did not know. On Saturday evening we went with our parents to the 'corpse house.' On entering the little parlour we found Grandmother sitting on a chair facing the door wiping her tear dimmed eyes, and on either side sat my uncle and aunt who had arrived from the city some hours previously. When my brother and I went to her she placed her old hands on our heads and said, 'Go in and see Grandfather.' We went to the bedroom to see death for the first time in our young lives. There he lay clothed in his brown habit. His old hands, clasped as in prayer, rested on his body, and his old rosary beads were entwined in his thin fingers. His eyes were closed as in sleep, his face was pale, but his long white beard had not changed; but when we touched his ice cold face and hands we were filled with a strange fear. We returned to the parlour which had not changed since our childhood days. By the fire side stood the old rocking chair in which grandfather sat and sang old Irish songs - 'The Rising of the Moon' and the "Shean Bhean Bhocht' being his favourites. The circular table still stood on the centre of the floor around which he had us march to the tune of the Boers' March, played on the old piano by one of our musical cousins who would be on a visit. And by the wall stood his library, indicating his literary tastes and scholarship. On the wall over the fireplace stood the old school clock, which he took with him on his retirement and which he never failed to wind each night after he had stood up from the Rosary. On our way down to the kitchen we passed the coat of arms of his family which had passed on to him and which he had fixed in the wall facing the front door, the history of which he related to all visitors who entered his home. Arriving in the kitchen we found his old neighbours, sitting around the big turf fire, smoking new clay pipes filled with fresh tobacco which was handed to each as he came in, and talking in hushed tones about the past. They remembered when Grandfather, with his young wife, came from another parish among them to open their school in an old barn lent by a kindly farmer, and later to move to a new building provided by the educational authorities and from which he would retire 40 years later. They remembered that it was to the 'Master' they came to have their letters written - some perhaps to America in connection with legacies left to them by relatives, others to the Land Commission in connection with settlements under the Purchase Acts, and others came ! to seek advice on their disputes. And again they remembered that it was in the little school their many children got all they had in secular and moral education which helped them later in life's struggle, when all but the few found themselves swallowed up in the big cities in England or America, and where 'one of the ten' remembered the 'Master and Mistress' by a letter now and then. Next day the funeral took place. Some hours before it was to leave large numbers of relatives and friends arrived, among whom were priests, in tall hats. The parlour and kitchen were filled with people and around Grandfather's bed stood his immediate relatives to look on his face for the last time before his body would be gently laid in the waiting coffin. Outside, large numbers had gathered from the two parishes and here again the clay pipes and tobacco were handed around and the recipient reverently raised his hat and murmured: 'The Lord have mercy on him.' And then a strange thing happened. A strange man standing among the crowd facing the front door commenced to sing, as from a ballad which he held in his hand. He had not got very far with his song when Grandmother appeared from inside and ordered him away; and reluctantly but quietly he disappeared in the crowd. Who he was and why he had come, I never knew. And now the funeral was about to leave. The coffin was reverently raised on to the shoulders of four men bearing the surname of Grandfather, who carried it down the lane which led from the house to the main road, and placed it in the waiting hearse. The driver was dressed in a long black coat, on front of which were two rows of shining brass buttons, and from beneath appeared his shining black leggings and boots. On one of his shoulders hung a large white sash, and around his tall black hat was a wide white ribbon which hung down his back. Looking back from the rear, we saw a long, long line of side cars on which people were taking their seats. The driver stepped up on the box and the cortege started on its five mile journey to the little cemetery on the lake side. It was a cold, dry day with an east wind gale force and overhead a dark leaden sky. We had no shelter from the piercing cold wind except that afforded by the trees and hedges along the road side. When the processi! on reached the parish border it stopped and a table, on which was a white cloth, was taken from a house and put standing on the road side. The immediate relatives then dismounted from their seats and formed a semi-circle around the table on which people placed their 'offerings.' When the last person had passed and resumed his seat, the cortege continued on its journey. We now came in view of the wide expanse of the lake to the east. Beyond lay the grey bleak hills, while across the intervening angry dark waters came rushing herds of white horses to dash against the boundary wall of the little cemetery below. Having reached the point on the road on which we must stop, the coffin was gently lifted from the hearse and carried on shoulders down the narrow path which led to the burial ground, to be reverently laid in the open grave awaiting it. The priests and relatives gathered around and Father Mick, Grandfather's nephew, gave the service, while someone held an umbrella over his shoulder to offer him the little shelter he could from the gale. Only during a momentary lull could we hear his voice mingling with the gentle sobbing of the women folk. But there were other sounds the storm failed to drown - the thud of the chunks of damp earth as it was being rolled over the coffin. The grave was closed, the final prayers were said, and we returned on the road we had come. I look back and think of the darkness which would in a few hours envelop the cemetery. I think of the winds howling around the ivied walls of the little old church and the angry waters dashing against the cemetery wall.! I think of Grandfather lying in his cold grave, never to return to the rocking chair by the cosy fireside, or hear the old school clock ticking on the wall." -- "Leitrim Guardian," 1995.

I HAVE kissed the Blarney stone twice. And yes, it works. :) You just have to be brave. brntown@cox.net

Hi, Pat, good to see you pop up there. Funnily enough, ten minutes ago I was writing to someone about your index to the Beagh book at http://www.celticcousins.net/ireland/beaghindex.htm Do you really think I'd admit to paying someone to hold me upside down by my feet so that I could kiss a stone ? :-) :-) Paddy -----Original Message----- From: IRISH-IN-UK-L-request@rootsweb.com [mailto:IRISH-IN-UK-L-request@rootsweb.com] On Behalf Of Pat Connors Sent: 09 February 2006 18:37 To: IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com Subject: Re: [UK-Irish] Cork -- "Gift of Blarney" (MacCARTHY) Paddy, seems to me you have been up kissing the stone a time or two :-) -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com ==== IRISH-IN-UK Mailing List ==== The Irish-In-UK Mailing List Website: http://www.connorsgenealogy.com/IrishUK/ ============================== View and search Historical Newspapers. Read about your ancestors, find marriage announcements and more. Learn more: http://www.ancestry.com/s13969/rd.ashx

Jean, You write that ".....the (Blarney) stone's origin is shrouded in myth. The tradition goes back to the late 16th century......... I recently came into possession of a centuries-old piece of parchment which tells the amazing tale of how the Blarney Stone came to be. The faded and weathered writing was very difficult to interpret. It appears to be a kind of diary kept by a court scribe or medieval fly-on-the-wall. I can best paraphrase the content of the document as follows. Many centuries ago the King of Blarney (a guy called Cormac McCarthy) was going through his castle accounts and came to the conclusion that his income would no longer cover the upkeep of the castle. He was depressed by the idea of having to cut his entertainment budget by 90% simply to have the moat dredged and the drawbridge repaired. He was mulling over this when his court jester, O'Brien, came in and said "Sire, I know how to bring in some money". The King sat bolt upright on his throne and instantly decided to take some quality time with the jester. "Speak, fool" he said, his mood already lightening. "Well, Sire, we could attract Tourists to the castle and get them to pay entry". "What are Tourists, fool ?". "I saw them on my travels in the Orient, Sire. They are overweight people in Bermuda shorts and flowered shirts with fat wallets. They visit castles and pay the owners large amounts of money for postcards". "Postcards, O'Brien ? What are postcards ? We don't have any postcards to sell". "Postcards are the castle proprietor's godsend, Sire. They are little pieces of cardboard bearing a cheap picture. The tourists write on them and send them home. They cost 2 cents to make and sell for 2.50. I've already got the scribes onto it. They are designing our Castle Postcard and it will be on the way to the printers this evening. "Amazing.."..." said the King, "but hold on, how do we get these Tourists to come here ? We are way off the beaten track on an island way out in the Atlantic". "I've thought of that too, Sire" replied the jester. "We will hire wandering minstrels to go around the world and put about the story that there is a Stone in our castle which, when kissed, gives the kisser the Eternal Gift of the Gab. We'll call it The Blarney Stone. I tell you, they'll come in their droves. The B&Bs around here will be filled to capacity." King made a quick note to buy up all the local B&Bs and favour the jester in the next pay review but then he suddenly stopped and frowned, as if a snag had occurred to him. "But wait a moment, this stone doesn't exist, fool". The jester smiled, savouring the moment. "As from today, Sire, it exists. You remember that stone that Robert the Bruce gave you last time you were over at his place ? You remember how you hauled it all the way home from Scotland and were complaining about what a useless present it was and you left it at the back of the courtyard ? Well, the builders were doing up the battlements last month and they ran out of stones and they used that stone to plug one of the gaps. It looks great and, what's more, with that Robert the Bruce story behind it has a History. It's perfect ! Let me show you it.". They went out to look at the Stone. "But how can anyone kiss that stone, fool ? It's way below the parapet". "Now that, O King, is the really neat bit ! We'll lower the Tourists down to the Stone by their feet so that they kiss it upside down ! Whaddya think ? Great, huh ?". "Lower the Tourists down to the Stone by their feet so that they kiss it upside down ? What a weird idea. Why so complicated ?" "That's the killer, Sire. That's the killer. All the loose change will fall out of their pockets into that basket down there by the moat. See it ? Slays you, right ? I knew it would. Also, Sire, there is a legal spinoff to it. You see, many of these Tourists are from America, an island across the seas. Some of them, if they don't get the Gift of the Gab, may consider bringing a product liability suit against us. Such lawsuits are very popular in their country. But, Sire, who is going to go to a court and publicly explain that they paid money to an Irishman to hold them by the feet so that they could hang down a castle wall and kiss a stone and acquire a facility called The Gift of the Gab. Would anyone want that getting into the local newspaper ? Of course not ! The Blarney Stone will seal their lips for ever. The King's eyes - hitherto boggling at the possibilities - softened as he turned to O'Brien and put a fatherly arm around his shoulder. "You know, O'Brien, I've underestimated you, I've underestimated you. As a reward for your brilliant idea I'm going to give you - in perpetuity, mind you - the concession on a Cheap Trinket stand at the entrance to the Keep". And so the Blarney Stone came into being. Paddy

RESOURCE: If you are researching families of some means, you may find details about them in the following resource. Please consult references to Prerogative Wills and Administrations, Calendar of Wills and Administration, Will and Grant Books, Abstracts and Transcripts, availability, etc. in reference books such as "Tracing Your Irish Ancestors," John GRENHAM, or on the Internet. Examples: These and others apparently found on page 270. Wills and Administrations. 1871. Punctuation often absent. 1. HORGAN Daniel. (191) - Effects under 200 pounds. 20 March. Letters of Administration of the personal estate of Daniel HORGAN late of Great George's-street, CORK Builder deceased who died 21 February 1870 at same place were granted at CORK to Michael Joseph HORGAN of the South Mall in said City Solicitor the Nephew of said deceased for the benefit of Catherine HORGAN Widow John HORGAN the Reverend David HORGAN Ellen GILLMAN Mary DALY and Margaret HORGAN only next of kin of said deceased. 2. HORNE Christopher. (67) - Effects under 100 pounds. 7 March. Letters of Administration of the personal estate of Christopher HORNE late of Ballinasloe County GALWAY Gentleman a Widower deceaed who died 21 March 1867 at same place were granted at the PRINCIPAL REGISTRY to Patrick HORNE of Ballinasloe aforesaid M. D. the only Brother of said deceased. 3. HORNER Isabella. (17) - Effects under 100 pounds. 29 April. Letters of Administration of the personal estate of Isabella HORNER late of Rahaghy County TYRONE Widow deceased who died 13 April 1871 at same place were granted at ARMAGH to James HORNER of Rahaghy (Aughnacloy) aforesaid Farmer the Son and one of the next of kin of said deceased. 4. HORNIDGE John Isaiah (79) - Effects under 450 pounds. 8 June. Letters of Adminstration (with the Will annexed) of the personal estate of John Isaiah HORNIDGE late of the South Dublin Union Workhouse DUBLIN Master of said Workhouse a Widower deceased who died 22 April 1871 at same place were granted at the PRINCIPAL REGISTRY to James Seymour LONGSTAFF of Stephen's-green Dublin Merchant and William Thomas ORPIN of George's-terrace George's-avenue Blackrock County DUBLIN Accountant the Guardians during minority only of the Daughter and only next of kin of deceased. 5. HOUSTON Eliza. (337). Effects under 200 pounds. 22 September. Letters of Administration of the personal estate of Eliza HOUSTON late of ..... (reference book photocopied sample page ends here). . .

> > >Do you really think I'd admit to paying someone to hold me upside down >by my feet so that I could kiss a stone ? > Maybe you snuck in at night. Being a native, you probably know how to get in free. I forgot about that index I did it for the Beagh parish history book. At the time I had been researching my father in law's family history and picked up the book in Ennis and then offered lookups on the Clare list, which I started around the same time. I had to index it so I could do the lookups. Our Cullinans are in it a few times. They worked on the railroad. My father in law had to leave after he was caught up in The Troubles of the 1920s. -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

Pat Casey -- Hilarious, thanks for sharing! I concur, that must have been EXACTLY the way it happened! As a vintage postcard collector, though, I must defend postcards. Some of the photos Leitrim poetess, Mary Guckian, took, actually appeared on Irish postcards in the 1980s. Mary now works in Dublin and, if all works out as planned, I will meet her in Dublin. She has invited by sister and I to have an Irish lunch in her flat! Has anyone on the list kissed the blarney stone - without putting their back out? I think I will pass on this attraction on my summer trip, but I am sure visitors have great fun participating in his time-honored tradition. (I won't let my sister anywhere near it - she is already a compulsive talker and I am not far behind!! Jean xxx ----- Original Message ----- From: "Patrick Casey" <pcasey@compuserve.com> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, February 09, 2006 8:28 AM Subject: RE: [UK-Irish] Cork -- "Gift of Blarney" (MacCARTHY) > Jean, > > You write that ".....the (Blarney) stone's origin is shrouded in myth. > The tradition goes back to the late 16th century......... > > I recently came into possession of a centuries-old piece of parchment > which tells the amazing tale of how the Blarney Stone came to be. The > faded and weathered writing was very difficult to interpret. It appears > to be a kind of diary kept by a court scribe or medieval > fly-on-the-wall. I can best paraphrase the content of the document as > follows. > <snip>

Paddy, seems to me you have been up kissing the stone a time or two :-) -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com

SNIPPET: Blarney Castle is famous as the place of tourist pilgrimage to kiss a stone on its top rampart to acquire "the gift of gab." The stone's origin is shrouded in myth. The tradition goes back to the late 16th century, when QUEEN ELIZABETH I was trying to plant loyal English settlers in Ireland to tighten her grip on the rebellious island. She demanded that the Irish clan chiefs recognize the crown (rather than the clan chiefs) as the legitimate titleholder of all lands. One of those chiefs was Cormac MacCARTHY, Lord of Blarney Castle who was supposedly loyal to the queen. He was clever enough never to disagree with the Queen; rather, he would avoid acquiescing to her demands by sending a never-ending stream of lengthy and deceptive excuses (disguised with flattery) while maintaining his native Gaelic loyalties. Frustrated, the Queen declared his verbiage nothing but "blarney." .

On the topic of Irish Stew.. BBC 2 had a programme Two Bearded Men on Bikes - Tuesaday. They were searching Ireland for the perfect Irish stew recipe. They were given good advice from travellers camped outside Dublin. You must keep the potato pieces large and potatoes are a 'must' in Irish stew, never optional! - Sounds good though! They then went to Carlingford ( Lovely place if anyone wants to visit -food and hospitality there is wonderful) and learnt how to prepare oysters properly. Great scenary and recipes! Did anyone else see it? Gill in Wales ----- Original Message ----- From: "Pat Connors" <nymets11@pacbell.net> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, February 07, 2006 6:07 PM Subject: [UK-Irish] Liam Neeson Glens of Antrim Irish Stew, recipe > thanks again to the Ireland Heritage Newsletter.. > > Liam Neeson Glens of Antrim Irish Stew > > "Serve with good bread, a bottle of wine, such as Margaux '85, and Van > Morrison's 'Celtic Twilight' playing in the background." > > 1 oz/25 g butter > 2 lb/900 g lamb or beef, cubed > 1 large onion, coarsely chopped > 2 carrots, chopped > 1 tbsp plain flour (optional) > 0.5 pint/275 ml beef stock > 2 tbsp tomato puree > 0.5 tbsp sugar > 2 potatoes, cubed (optional) > 1 bottle of Guinness or a large glass of red wine > 1 bouquet garni (sprig of parsley, sprig of thyme, 1 bay leaf tied up in > muslin) > Salt and freshly ground black pepper > Tabasco sauce > > METHOD > Melt the butter in a large pan and fry the meat in it until browned on all > sides. Do not crowd the pan; brown the meat in two or three batches if > necessary. Remove the meat from the pan, add the onion and carrots and > cook until slightly softened. > > Return the meat to the pan, add the flour, if using, then stir in the > stock, tomato puree and sugar. Bring to the boil and then reduce the heat > to a simmer. Add the potatoes, if using, the Guinness or the wine, the > bouquet garni and salt and pepper to taste. > > Cook over a low heat for about 1 to 1 1/2 hours or until the meat is > tender. While the stew is simmering, add 4 or 5 drops of tabasco to taste. > Serves 4 > > > -- > Pat Connors, Sacramento CA > http://www.connorsgenealogy.com > > > > ==== IRISH-IN-UK Mailing List ==== > The Irish-In-UK Mailing List Website: > http://www.connorsgenealogy.com/IrishUK/ > > ============================== > View and search Historical Newspapers. Read about your ancestors, find > marriage announcements and more. Learn more: > http://www.ancestry.com/s13969/rd.ashx > >

On the topic of Irish Stew.. BBC 2 had a programme Two Bearded Men on Bikes - Tuesaday. They were searching Ireland for the perfect Irish stew recipe. The were given good advice from travellers camped outside Dublin. You must keep the potato pieces large and potatoes are a 'must' in Irish stew, never optional! - Sounds good though! They then went to Carlingford ( Lovely place if anyone wants to visit -food and hospitality there is wonderful) and learnt how to prepare oysters properly. Great scenary and recipes! Did anyone else see it? Gill in Wales ---- Original Message ----- From: "Pat Connors" <nymets11@pacbell.net> To: <IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Tuesday, February 07, 2006 6:07 PM Subject: [UK-Irish] Liam Neeson Glens of Antrim Irish Stew, recipe > thanks again to the Ireland Heritage Newsletter.. > > Liam Neeson Glens of Antrim Irish Stew > > "Serve with good bread, a bottle of wine, such as Margaux '85, and Van > Morrison's 'Celtic Twilight' playing in the background." > > 1 oz/25 g butter > 2 lb/900 g lamb or beef, cubed > 1 large onion, coarsely chopped > 2 carrots, chopped > 1 tbsp plain flour (optional) > 0.5 pint/275 ml beef stock > 2 tbsp tomato puree > 0.5 tbsp sugar > 2 potatoes, cubed (optional) > 1 bottle of Guinness or a large glass of red wine > 1 bouquet garni (sprig of parsley, sprig of thyme, 1 bay leaf tied up in > muslin) > Salt and freshly ground black pepper > Tabasco sauce > > METHOD > Melt the butter in a large pan and fry the meat in it until browned on all > sides. Do not crowd the pan; brown the meat in two or three batches if > necessary. Remove the meat from the pan, add the onion and carrots and > cook until slightly softened. > > Return the meat to the pan, add the flour, if using, then stir in the > stock, tomato puree and sugar. Bring to the boil and then reduce the heat > to a simmer. Add the potatoes, if using, the Guinness or the wine, the > bouquet garni and salt and pepper to taste. > > Cook over a low heat for about 1 to 1 1/2 hours or until the meat is > tender. While the stew is simmering, add 4 or 5 drops of tabasco to taste. > Serves 4 > > > -- > Pat Connors, Sacramento CA > http://www.connorsgenealogy.com > > > > ==== IRISH-IN-UK Mailing List ==== > The Irish-In-UK Mailing List Website: > http://www.connorsgenealogy.com/IrishUK/ > > ============================== > View and search Historical Newspapers. Read about your ancestors, find > marriage announcements and more. Learn more: > http://www.ancestry.com/s13969/rd.ashx > >

Pat, Many thanks for that posting ... it's solved a mystery for me. I'm not a great one for the languages - I can order a beer and an hotel room in french and german but it doesn't go much further than that .... but ... what more do you need?. When I sit down with my mother and listen to the family stories from Derry and Inishowen, she would often say ..."I think she had a wee graw for him".... as if to say, "she liked him". Having seen your posting, I can now understand the origin of the expression. It's good to think that these gaelic words are still used as part of the everyday english language in the north west of Ireland. Regards Ben http://www.benpalmer.co.uk/movillerecords.htm ----Original Message Follows---- From: Pat Connors <nymets11@pacbell.net> Reply-To: IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com To: IRISH-IN-UK-L@rootsweb.com Subject: [UK-Irish] Irish Valentine Must: Waht to say to your love in Irish Date: Tue, 07 Feb 2006 10:01:14 -0800 Thanks to the Irish Heritage Newsletter: Lá Naomh Vailintín Shona Dhuit What to say to your love in Irish... Grá (graw) - Love A ghrá (Ah hraw) - My love/My dear A stóirín (Ah store-reen) - Darling! Mo mhuirnín (Muh whurneen/vurneen) - My sweetheart Póg mé! (Pogue may) - Kiss me! Tóg mé, tá mé leatsa (Toag may, taw may latsah) - Take me, I'm yours Mo chupcáca (Muh hup-caw-cah) - My cupcake Is é cinniúint é! (Shay kinn-noo-int ay) - It's kismet! Mo ghrá thú (Muh hraw hoo) - I love you Thitim mé i ngrá leat (Hittim may ih nraw lat) - I fell in love with you Is tusa an grá mo chroí (Iss tussah ahn graw muh hree) - You are the love of my heart Táim i ngrá leatsa (Tah-im ih nraw latsah) - I'm in love with you Táim i bpian an ghrá (Tah-im ih beh-in ahn raw) - I'm lovesick Barróga agus póga (Bahrogue-ah ahguss pogue-ah) - Hugs and kisses Tá siad ag seinm ár n-amhráin grá (taw shee-ad a shen-um awhr nahrawn graw) - They're playing our song. (Connemara pickup line) B'fhearr liom thú nó céad bó bhainne! (Barr lum hoo no cayd bow wahn-nyah) - I prefer you to a hundred milk cows! Lá Naomh Vailintín Shona Dhuit (Law neev val-in-teen hunna gwitch) - Happy Valentine's Day -- Pat Connors, Sacramento CA http://www.connorsgenealogy.com ==== IRISH-IN-UK Mailing List ==== The Irish-In-UK Mailing List Website: http://www.connorsgenealogy.com/IrishUK/ ============================== Find your ancestors in the Birth, Marriage and Death Records. New content added every business day. Learn more: http://www.ancestry.com/s13964/rd.ashx